


epilogue

by shortcircuitify



Series: Wandering Wanderers [4]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Human Outsider (Dishonored)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-13 00:03:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11747955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortcircuitify/pseuds/shortcircuitify
Summary: There are, of course, new things to learn from – and of – humanity.





	epilogue

He doesn’t remember being human, barely remembers his red blood dripping down into the cracks of the altar that drew him up to godhood. A miasma of black stone takes the place of his long childhood memories, when he was a frail, scared boy, more afraid of the hunger gnawing his bones than the deep, dark waves of the ocean that called to him and offered him sweet peace.

The ocean from Dunwall is not so different from back then, distant and black, its thin skin hiding the ecosystem below.

He is human now, and he dreams of whales. He does, however, miss the ones floating above his head in the void. There is not much to like being a human, after all, when he cannot sink into shadows whenever he pleases, must stand the stench and touch of others to come to the harbor and stare at the ocean, when it had been so much simpler before.

He spits into its churning waves, knees drawn up to his chest like a petulant child. No, there is not much to being a human, and not much to like of it either. He is surprised that it had been as simple as it was, willing himself to become flesh and bone, the solidness of them to bring him back to the islands.

He pisses and eats, out of necessity rather than pleasure, shaves the stubble on his chin and drinks wine that makes his head spin whenever Emily forces him to appear in court. The fake smile he wears is new, and hurts his jaw.

Most days are long, and the court is the worst, with the fake people and their blue blood making him want to bite their pulse points, sink into their flesh and draw their oil out of their marrow. A suiting punishment for their punitive stares and frowning lips, staring at Emily like a piece of flesh, or prey, to be devoured.

It was better from the shadows, entertaining and fascinating to see his gift bestowed upon those he had no allegiance to. Now he must sit through Emily’s rare fits, unable to disappear with the rising of the Dunwall sun, her ranting, angry glares making his heart curl into the bottoms of his toes.

The walk back from the harbor is somehow worse than the walk to it, although there are less people, darkness creeping over the alleyways covered by larger and grander buildings. He finds no peace here, does not speak to anyone except the few rats unaffected by the plague years ago.

There are wrinkles near his mouth and eyes that were not there before; they disgust him. Dunwall Tower looms over him, as it always does, but did not always do.

“Emily,” he greets, shucking his coat and unknotting the cravat around his neck.

But then, of course, there is her.

She nods her head, legs covered by the heavy down comforter favored year-round in cool Dunwall, report on Karnaca or other splayed across her thighs. He snakes his own way under the covers, smoothing his hand up her outer thigh, the curve of her hip.

There are, of course, new things to learn from – and of – humanity.

It takes little to distract her, and she is prone when his hands roam over her, his teeth biting the lobe of her ear. It amazes him, her soft breaths against his face, the way her pupils dilate, the missive discarded to the floor as she opens herself to his hands, skating their way over the edge of her nightshift.

It is fun to tease her like this, the stony Empress of the Isles, whimpering under his cool hands. His hand lifts her shift, inching up her inner thighs, the heat that emanates between her legs, waiting for him to touch, love, conquer.

It is a unique feeling, a powerful one, one that arouses him until he is hard against her leg, his breath matching hers as she begs, the small _please_ escaping her lips making his cock twitch delightfully.

He captures her lips, easily, fingers grazing her mound, always teasing, pushing her and testing her, before finally she pushes him back, her strong thighs encasing his hips, hands clawing at his pants and shirt. He obliges her easily, ridding her of the awful shift, her nipples hardening in the cool night air, the moon throwing her body into sharp relief, her face open and eyes wanting.

She is restless tonight, he smiles. She takes him in hand, ready and weeping, and sinks onto him, silky and tight, her lips parting just for _him._

This, perhaps, is what will make the thin blood running through his veins worth the price of the snaking grip of the void.

She tightens around him, a strangled gasp leaving her throat and she bucks against him, and he spills into her, hands gripping her ass as his breath skitters and breaks over his release.

The thought of a babe with her cool eyes excites him.


End file.
